


write it in ink or in blood

by swimthewholeriogrande



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Blackmail, Boys In Love, Canon Era, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Secret Relationship, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-17 23:37:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16106159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimthewholeriogrande/pseuds/swimthewholeriogrande
Summary: A heavy ransom and territory war push the king of Manhattan over the edge.





	1. friends may flee, let 'em ditch ya

Davey was well used to fighting with Jack; with two such opinionated people in a one fairly new relationship, they were bound to butt heads, but tonight Jack was just being an asshole.

"I don't have the time to be involved in every bit of running Manhattan," he was trying to explain, "I have to go to school -" But Jack wouldn't let it be.

"You's run off and left all the boys in the lurch." Jack's thick accent always got stronger when he was angry and usually Davey would find it attractive but he was too irritated to think about it. "I know you's got your big life outside a'us, but you have responsibilities here too, Davey -"

The accusation that he'd abandoned the newsies - his only real and very best friends - stung, and Davey whirled around with the full force of a Jacobs' rage. "I have to plan a real life, Jack!" he shouted, and gestured wildly around them at the lodging house, quiet as all the boys hid from the argument on the street. "You don't think this is forever, do you? Grow up!"

Jack's face went cool and blank, a look Davey recognised; when something wounded Jack too deeply to bear he would simple vacate his body and allow it to be taken over by whatever image was expected by whoever he was talking to. He had never done it with Davey before; it didn't feel good, and Davey faltered, taking half a step back.

"You want me to grow up?" Jack asked quietly, ignoring Davey's sudden switch. His eyes were hard, unforgiving. "You think you know more'n me, David? You think I don't know this ain't a permanent thing?" He laughed bitterly. "Hell, sounds to me like you're saying we ain't a permanent thing."

Davey tasted metal and sour shame, and this time he did take a step forwards but it was fueled by a helpless, raging need to bite back at Jack. "I never said that. " and now something ugly reared in him, "Maybe Snyder knocked your head around too many times."

Jack snarled, his calm facade gone. "You got no right to say that -"

"You've got no right to stir shit up and tell me it was my fault -"

"God, Davey, just go!" Jack burst out finally. "Get the hell out of here. I don't want to see you right now."

Davey smiled at him, all teeth and mocking. "My pleasure," he ground out, and made sure to slam the door behind himself.

Outside Davey stalked right through the gang of the other boys as they asked what was wrong and disappeared into the crowd on the next street over; if he saw one more newsie, he would scream. He never wanted to see one of those stupid hats again, or hear a stupid mispronunciation, or -

It took Davey hours to cool off, and by then embarrassment was a heavy stone in his stomach; he knew he'd behaved like Les when he didn't get his way, and that Jack was under pressure from Queens, and that the whole thing had escalated from something silly he barely remembered. It was time to go back.

As Davey made a turnaround to the lodging house, he thought about what Jack must be doing at that moment - probably sulking on the penthouse, feeling much the same as Davey with regret sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. It made him grin. Davey would go back and they would make up like they always did. It would be another lazy stretching summer evening, and hey, maybe he'd even sleep over -

The hand over his mouth startled him so much that he bit down on instinct, hard, but there was already a thick, foul-smelling bag over his head before he could use his attacker's pain to his advantage. Davey tripped and scrambled over his own feet and then someone else's, kicked out hard as he tried to break free, and then passed out with a rock to the back of the head.

Ah, he thought distantly as he crumpled, eyes closing, this life is not forever at all.


	2. we won't beg no one to treat us fair and square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New project here we gooo

Davey woke up in the blackest darkness he'd ever known, and the first thing he thought was that whoever grabbed him had surely thrown him into deep space. Then he blinked and his eyelids dragged roughly over cloth tied tight around his head, and his wild train of thought came to a screeching halt. Was this any better than deep space, really, though? Davey thought bitterly.

He flexed his arms and found them tied behind his back around a chair, which was hard and unforgiving against his spine and hips, slumped down as he was. He went to jerk himself upright and his head swam. 

"Hello?" he called warily. He wasn't sure whether he actually wanted to talk to whoever had restrained him - but maybe it was just a joke, some prank by the boys that had gone a little too far. Davey forced himself to laugh, albeit a little shakily. "This isn't funny, guys."

"Ain't supposed to be." 

That wasn't a voice he knew, and it was cold as frost. Davey licked his lips and shifted slightly, weighing up his options, but the only one was to respond or be left alone again. "What's it supposed to be, then?" he asked, and then immediately cringed at how sarcastic he sounded. "Ah, I mean, I didn't mean to -"

"Jeez, I see why they call you the Mouth." There was a footstep somewhere to his right and Davey's heartrate spiked. "Jack's got you all talkative, huh?"

Davey froze at the mention of Jack, his mind rushing back to the fight and the subsequent storming out, the hard blow to the back of his head - yes, it was aching, a steady pound. "I was talkative before Jack." he snapped, and knew he'd pushed his luck a little too far when there was a rough shove to his shoulder, sending the chair screeching across the floor.

"You listen to me, Manhattan," The voice was right in his ear suddenly and Davey jumped and struggled, flinching when spittle hit the side of his neck, "you's only here because of Kelly. You's a chip, alright? So shut your trap and sit tight."

Davey's mind - which he usually considered to function pretty well, albeit slower than his talking speed - was lagging, maybe because of the hit to his skull. All he was processing was Jack's name at first, the fierce longing that ensued, and then the implication that he was some sort of bargaining tool. Insult flared, but Davey bit his tongue and strained against his binds again; even his ankles were tied. The lack of sight was more unsettling than he'd ever imagined.

"Are you - Brooklyn? Bronx?" Davey turned his head back and forth, struggling to place the stranger; he felt exposed as a raw nerve, screaming skin. 

"What did I just say, Mouth?"

The nickname sounded so wrong when not called affectionately at him from across a crowded street, so much love in it - now it made his ears burn with embarrassment. "I know," he said quickly, "but I just -"

The stranger flicked the tip of Davey's nose like he was chastising a dog, and humiliated fury roared through Davey. "We's everyone." the offender said conversationally. "Almost every borough in the city. We've got bones to pick with Conlon and Kelly, and you're the biggest blind spot in Manhattan."

"No, hold on." Davey made one last bid, eyes flickering under the blindfold. "This isn't how we do business, alright? If you want to sort stuff out just come to the -"

This time the clip across his face caught him by surprise; it was barely a lovetap but the indignation swept Davey into a frenzy, and he rocked back and forth on the chair, straining for freedom. "This isn't how it works!" he protested, trying to keep his voice strong despite the trembling he could feel in his body. There was a low laugh, and a rough pat on his cheek.

"It works however I say it works, Mouth." There were fast-fading footsteps; Davey jerked against the ropes holding him down, once, twice, three times, and then the person was gone. 

Davey sank back down to the uncomfortable position he was tied into with a heavy, broken breath. His breathing was picking up too fast, and he would have shut his eyes to calm down but everything was dark anyway. "Alright." he muttered to himself readily. "Alright. Alright."

He could say it as much as he wanted; Davey knew that didn't make it true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment if you're enjoying this and thanks for reading!


	3. this is for kids shining shoes on the street

"It's getting late out, Racer. Where is he?" 

The night had taken a plunge when Davey still hadn't come back by ten; Jack had been sitting by the window for two hours before he finally confessed his worries to Racetrack. His second in command just sighed, clapping a hand onto Jack's shoulder.

"He was worked up. He's probably blowing off steam." Race looked a little worried too despite his blasé tone. He paused and then offered, "Want me to check with Brooklyn?"

Usually Jack didn't like his boys going out too late, but there was still a little light out and he trusted Race to take care of himself on the streets more than he trusted Davey, as much as he loved him. They'd already checked the Jacobs', and the library, and the roof just in case Davey had snuck back in - they were running out of places he would hide. He told Race to to and to be safe, and then continued his vigil in sullen nervousness.

"C'mon, Davey," he muttered, watching the last of the sun bleed out of its edges, "come on home."

-

Davey had no idea how much time had passed, but it felt like it had been years since he'd woken up and he was still wearing the blindfold and still tied to the chair. His brain was running wild without visual stimulation; what if he lost his sight permanently? What if he got muscle atrophy? What if the hostile newsies came back and beat the absolute crap out of him, and one of his ribs broke, and then it punctured his lung, and then he'd die, and then hey, they'd probably just throw him in the East River, right? 

Davey knew he was overthinking like he always did but it was difficult to stop when there was nothing else to do. There was a more pressing issue anyway; he needed to go to the bathroom, like right now.

"Hello?" he called, when he couldn't stand it anymore. He felt like an idiot. "Is anyone there?"

There was no reply, and then suddenly a hinge squeaked and made him jump. The same voice he'd heard before was back, bored and irritated.

"What?"

"I need to go to the bathroom." Davey could feel his cheeks going red, like a little child raising his hand in school. There was a sharp sigh and Davey wanted to sigh right back that it wasn't exactly a picnic for him either.

"I can't just let you wander around, Mouth." The earlier mocking tone was gone; the boy seemed stressed, and it made Davey wonder what was going on outside the darkness he was stuck in. "I ain't stupid."

Davey shifted uneasily. "But -"

"But I sure as hell ain't cleaning you up, so." Work-worn hands tugged at his ankles and wrists, rough rope burning his skin and making him twitch away instinctively. "You got two minutes."

Davey was hauled up and shoved roughly; his legs were weak and he stumbled, head swinging around. His hands went to the blindfold instinctively to pull it off, but his fingers slipped over a thick knot that wouldn't budge. There was another harsh push in retaliation.

"Watch it. Just go to the bathroom and sit the hell back down."

Davey hated the idea of going with the other boy watching, but there was nothing he could do. When he was finished he stayed standing instead of doing what he'd been told, dithering; he could feel a draft on his left. There must be a door. Was it worth -

"Mouth, I'm warning you -"

Davey was running before his brain caught up to the action. He barely made it four steps, blinded and loose-limbed, before a hand caught his collar and he was cut off with a choke; he clawed at the back of his neck with one hand and the blindfold with the other. "Let go, asshole!" he growled, writhing, and the boy snarled in his ear.

"Your boys gave you a temper." The boy dragged Davey back to the chair and slammed him down, the wood knocking against his shoulderblades in a way that would surely leave bruises. "And my name's Burner. Next time you call me anything but, you's gonna lose a few teeth."

The fight eked out of Davey went he felt the restraints bite into him again. He lowered his head and didn't say a word until Burner was about to leave - then he called out bitterly, "Manhattan's gonna make you pay."

It was an uncharacteristically violent thing for Davey to think, let alone say, and it felt foreign coming out of his mouth. Burner didn't answer, clearly not thinking Davey worthy of his time, and slammed the door behind him - and Davey was by himself in the dark, again, always alone.

-

Racetrack had never been scared walking through the city before. He'd been nervous, sure, and he'd had his fair share of trouble, but all in all he generally made it to Brooklyn and back alright. And he went to Brooklyn - to Spot - often. But today he was scared. Davey hadn't been across the bridge, and Race was starting to get as worried as Jack was, and he had the most awful creeping feeling on the back of his neck like someone was breathing down his shirt.

Racetrack was not a religious child; but as he hurried down the street and the feeling only grew, he started to mutter the prayers the nuns always tried to teach him and other boys. He said them under his breath and quiet as he could, trying not to draw attention to himself, but evidently they didn't worked.

The hand that clamped onto the back of his neck pinched a nerve and made him squeal. "Amen," someone hissed in Race's ear, and then there was nothing.


	4. they give us our rights or we give them a war

"I'll fuckin' kill you, Burner, you coward!"

Davey woke up from whatever half-sleep he'd fallen into with a jerk, his body instinctively trying to rise and remained trapped right. He could hear a thick accent swearing and harsh, scuffling noises like someone was being dragged.

" - I'm gonna break every bone in your body - Davey! Oh my God!"

Davey fought almost absentmindedly against the ropes when he finally recognised the voice calling him. "Racetrack?" It came out as a yelp that grated his own ears. "Race, what are you -"

There was another scuffle, the shriek of chair legs as Race was seemingly tied down too. "Don't you dare put that back on me," Davey heard him say venomously, and his own blindfold itched around his eyes. He swallowed hard and tried to shift his chair closer to Race.

"What's the big idea, Burner?" Race snarled. It sounded far more impressive than anything Davey could have produced and he was suddenly selfishly glad Jack's second in command was there. "You's bringing hell on your head."

"God, do you Manhattans ever shut up?" Burner groaned. He was somewhere behind Davey now. "You're gonna wish you never took off that blindfold, Higgins. See your pal here? He's been good and stayed blind so when this is over, he can stay quiet about where he's been."

"Oh yeah, what are you gonna do?" Race goaded. There were footsteps and a hard blow of skin on skin that made Davey flinch.

"Leave it, Race." he called, but he was no longer the main focus.

"And how you expect Manhattan to let you go after whatever business you got planned?" Racetrack spat. "You ain't never gonna sell again, you or your boys."

Another painful sound. "When we's through there won't be a Manhattan to do nothing." Burner laughed venomously. "Your life for their territory. And by the way, Racetrack - you ain't here for Kelly."

"No?"

"No, you're here for Brooklyn. For Spot."

There was dead silence. Davey squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the fear that must be coursing through Racetrack at being found out - that terror at your so-called deplorable love life being brought into focus. He heard a low, growling sound that could only have come from Race, throat rough from years of cigars and early mornings.

"Pipe down, queer." Burner said the slur in an off-hand way. "Why do you think Davey's here, huh? Ain't cause he's such a hotshot sidekick."

There it was; his own killing blow. Davey cut off his choked cry before it began. Racetrack just snarled. 

"You don't know shit about me or Davey, Burner."

"I know enough." Davey shunted back in his chair when Burner grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulled his head so far his neck started to hurt. A protest stuck in his throat and fluttered there like a frightened bird.

"Get off him!"

That was Race; he must not have been blindfolded again. Davey felt absurd envy before it was overtaken by relief, when the death grip on his hair released and he dropped down, coughing. Burner patted his head like a dog.

"I'll be back soon." There was a pause and then a chuckle. "Sit tight."

As soon as Burner was gone Racetrack made a cracking sort of moan. "He knows, Mouth. How does he know?"

Davey had no idea, and said as much; he and Jack had taken great pains to hide their relationship, and he knew Racetrack and Spot had to. The queer underworld of New York City was incredibly hard ro crack even when you were gay, so how had Burner found out about even one newsie couple, let alone two? Davey's mind rewound, trying to remember an instance where he could have been seen with Jack, but came up short.

"Well," Racetrack said grimly, "the guys will find us. Whatever little power-grab they're pulling - I saw guys from at least three boroughs - it'll never work. We might be street rats but we got politics."

"Yeah." Davey knew he sounded unenthusiastic, but it had been almost two days now, he thought, and after the awful fight he'd had with Jack - if that was the last time he saw him, and his family - "Sure they will."

-

Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly received identical letters exactly twenty-four hours after the night Davey and Race went missing, written in the same hand and delivered by a messenger boy who was gone before they could ask who it was from. They both went along these lines:

Your boy is a dead man walking unless we see you at Macully Warehouse on the docks, eleven on Friday. Manhattan and Brooklyn are over.

\- New York City Coalition

The envelopes came with small, violent gifts stuffed into them. Spot's contained the cold, long-dead butt of a Cuban cigar; Jack's had the label ripped from a shirt, stitched lovingly with JACOBS in messy thread.

Jack hit the wall, then hit Spot when they met up to talk about what was happening and promptly got punched right back. The nerve of this 'Coalition' - stealing people off the streets - but it was less anger and more terror that plagued them. When the terse conversation trailed off they just stared at each other, reading the common secret between them, and smelling the stink of fear that drifted in off the wind. Missing the disappeared like air.


	5. we ain't come this far to lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we keep trucking on

The second Jack saw Burner's smug face he wanted to abandon every principle Medda ever taught him and hit to kill. Spot had no such principles, and when Burner tipped his head at them in way of greeting Jack had to hold the other boy back by the elbow, raw power held at bay with a single hand.

"Evening, boys." Burner called. He had five boys with him - Jack saw Flushing, Queens, the Bronx - what in the hell was going on? "Getting dark a little earlier, ain't it?"

"Don't mess around with us." Spot shoved Jack off him, taking a heavy step forwards. "Where are they?"

Burner's eyes darkened. He stood up straight against the box he'd been leaning against and crossed his arms over his chest. "Alright. You's busy men, I get it. Let's talk business. How does a nice, long holiday sound to you?"

"What's this coalition bullshit?" Jack was pretty close to just letting Spot at them, and then joining in himself. "You boys planning some sort of coup? You got your own territory in Harlem."

"It's not just me." The boys around Burner shifted restlessly at his words, faces tight and aggressive. He spread his hands wide and grinned viciously. "You've got a revolution on your hands. Brooklyn n'Manhattan have been dominating sales for too long. You give over your territory or -"

"Or what?" Jack snarled; his nails were cutting into his palms and his mind was on a constant reel of Davey, Davey, where's Davey? It was hard to focus on business when the boy he loved could be God knows where, in God knows what condition. "You turn into some kind of executioner? God, Burner, I'm gonna -"

"Davey's been real quiet." one of the other boys chimed in, his eyes black and shiny like river stones. "Think he's starting to get spooked, Kelly. Think he's starting to get real, real scared."

A dull hum of fury sparked in Jack's ears, and it was Spot who had to pull him back. He struggled for a moment and then shouted wordlessly, furiously, kicking the cement floor so hard he nearly broke his toes. "You lay a hand on David," he warned, powerless and all the more angry for it, "and I'll snap your neck. I mean it, Burner."

"I wouldn't be threatening me." Burner paused, and then dropped his ultimatum, eyes slitted: "I'll kill them both, boys, and then I'll tell everyone that you're both queers and let me just tell you, I won't be shy with the lurid details." 

Jack and Spot shied backward at the same time, shamed in tandem with a mutual, stinging pain. Jack felt his mouth go dry, his face drain of blood; he suspected that was what had caused Davey to get chosen instead of Crutchie or one of his others - but it was still a slap in the face. The most basic kind of terror crept through him; if people knew he was - gay - he'd end up in jail, if he even made it through a week alive. 

"What do we have to do?" he heard Spot say from very far away. Burner sighed.

"You got a week to tie up your loose ends - before I do it for you." Burner cracked one of his knuckles thoughtfully. "The Hudson's flowing really fast these days, and awful deep." 

-

Race had been moved. Davey had heard them drag the chair out the door, had protested just as much as Racetrack had - albeit with less swearing - but it hadn't made a difference. Hopefully he'd come back. He had to come back.

When the door squeaked open a few hours later, Davey was so hungry and thirsty by that point that he would have done just about anything for help. "Look," he rasped, "if you even want me still here to be a ransom or whatever you need to feed me or give me water or something, please -"

There was a whistle, high and haunting, and Davey felt the most uncomfortable crawling sensation start up his spine; he swallowed, rough in his dry throat, and shut himself right up.

"My, ain't you a pretty thing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to write a character who can't see (at least at the moment) but it's a good writing challenge!


	6. where tomorrow won't remind me of today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: non-consensual touching in this chapter so if you're unable to read that, please mind yourself and don't read to keep yourself safe!

Davey had once seen a dog cornered - the savage flash of teeth that ensued almost scared off its attackers, but then there came this solid bodily slump as the dog gave up. It gave up its life and died. 

And when the strange arrival to the room whistled and cat-called at him, voice low and cloying, Davey felt himself skip both of those stages and go straight to a numb, buzzing terror. He felt the blood go out of his face and rush to his heart, sending it thudding out of his ribs.

"What?" he said, stupidly, like he hadn't heard the other boy, and then jumped when a finger suddenly aced the back of his neck, sending shivers down his whole body out of nowhere. He'd come to trust his limited senses, but they'd let him down. 

"Get off." Davey ground out, shrugging the other boy off to try to retain what little control he had, but his voice was so quiet and distant in his ears. His muscles were cramping and aching with the strain of fighting back a struggle.

"That pretty face - I see why Kelly keeps you around." A hand closed over his twisted shoulder, massaged it once, and revulsion rolled low in Davey's stomach. "Too pretty for your own good." 

Just stay still. Stay still and he'll leave you alone.

Davey felt tension wind up his body like a clock about to chime. His mouth was dry and metallic. "Don't touch me." he tried to snap, but it came out as a gasp.

The boy, ignoring him completely, squeezed his bicep in a possessive way and huffed out an impressed breath. "You been holding out on us, Mouth?" His hand wandered to Davey's chest.

Davey struggled once then, sudden and violent and blind, and fingers bit into his skin in warning. He strained as far as he could away, locked muscles aching in protest, and the stranger clicked his tongue.

"Don't be shy. Everyone knows you're queer, Mouth." The last few words were said in a sing-song sort of way. It was a nightmarish contrast to the way the boy twisted the skin on Davey's shoulders in a vicious pinch. 

Ah, that stinging word; in the context it made Davey. feel even worse than it usually did. Then the top button of his shirt was undone, the unknown fingers absurdly warm against his skin - the knowledge that more of his skin was exposed made Davey swallow hard, a reflexive nervous gag. "Gorgeous." the boy said, almost to himself.

Stay quiet. Stay -

"Please -!" Davey broke his own rule and half-shouted the word when his shirt was torn suddenly, hanging half-open with buttons popping to the floor; bile rose to his throat, and he fisted his hands in the restraints. Oh God, no, don't - the boy bit down on Davey's collarbone with a savage growl. Davey heard himself make a horrible noise, felt pain surge across his throat. He was bleeding. He was bleeding; his whole body was on fire.

"What the fuck?"

Davey never thought he'd be happy to hear Burner's voice, but when he did it made him want to cry from happiness. He twitched when the boy pulled away from him, voiding, and knew it must be quite obvious what had happened; he shivered and swallowed again, so loud in his own ears. His head spun a dizzy waltz.

"Get out a'here." he heard Burner said threateningly to the attacker, who was quiet now, sullen. "Dumbass. Kelly would have killed you."

It wasn't about Davey, it was all about Jack, he had to remember that, that no one here cared what he wanted or what he did, it was about Jack - Davey never wanted Jack to touch him again. He never wanted to be touched again.

Burner left with the boy, not bothering to pull Davey's shirt closed, and he let out a groan of relief when he was alone for good this time. The bite on his neck stung with the cool air and made him want to retch. 

"Jesus," he said, very calmly, and then shock rolled his eyes back into his head and he passed out.

-

Race couldn't help but notice that he was being treated a hell of a lot better than Davey. For one thing, Davey had been blindfolded the whole time - Race didn't think he knew he was doing it, but the other boy kept moving his head in odd, twitching movements - and when Race had taken off for food and water, they only allowed him some to bring back to Davey.

And to his surprise they didn't tie him to the chair again, just attached his ankles on a short rope and bound his hands in front of him, so he could still carry a chipped cup and bread for Dacey. Someone, not Burner, just shoved him into the room, and as he came to a stumbling halt, Race froze.

Davey's once clean and tidy shirt was ripped open, his chest heaving and pale beneath it, and he was doing the strange jerky movements again, head snapping around like a bird. His nostrils flared, feral, when Race's footsteps rang out; there was a deep blue indentation of teeth - teeth - on his collarbone, scabbing slightly - and Race swayed, saw red.

"S'me, Mouth." he said softly, capping his fury when he remembered that Davey didn't - couldn't - even know who he was. "I got some water and stuff." There was no point asking what had happened.

Davey calmed a little, sinking back into his restraints. "Ah, uh. Thanks, Racer." He didn't say anything about it either.

They realised pretty quickly that Davey couldn't exactly feed himself with his hands tied behind his back, so Racetrack had to do it for him; it was oddly intimate. Then again they were joint captives, so any situation in those circumstances was bound to feel - different. It didn't last long either, because Davey just about inhaled everything like a man on death row.

Up close, Race could see a fingerprint bruise where Davey's neck met his shoulder. He paused when the food was gone, reached out and pulled Davey's shirt closed as much as he could; Davey's filthy blindfold hid his eyes but Race could tell that they were screwed shut tight.

"Thank you." he murmured.

"Won't happen again." Race promised, sore with affection. "I won't leave again, I swear, Davey. Not long now."

Davey's body - which would ache and fail on him, Race knew, when he was released from the sitting position he was trapped in - was trembling from fatigue. Stubble lined his jaw; a boy on the cusp of a man, on the edge of something great. "Thank you," he repeated. And Race let him sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heavy one I know, but I promise things will improve for them! Thanks for reading


	7. in between it pours

Wrapping up years of leadership took more than a week. Jack knew that, but Burner clearly didn't or he wouldn't be harassing Jack every damn hour to update him on when the whole business would be over; of course, it was hard to give updates on something you hadn't started.

Jack loved Davey, more than anything, more than any territory or any shred of his own pride. But he had almost a hundred boys counting on him, especially some who really needed him - Crutchie, who no other newsie leader would accept into his borough; Kid Blink, half blind; even Race, who'd gotten his ass kicked by half the city for how smart his mouth was. It wasn't like they could head across the river to Brooklyn, because if Burner had his way, Brooklyn would be gone too.

There'd been no word from Spot; Jack knew Race being in danger must be killing him, just like Davey's absence was killing him. 

Jack had been on the penthouse for three days now, agonizing over how to save his boys and his borough. He couldn't shake the guilt at how furious his last moments with Davey had been, the sharp, snapping words they'd hurled at each other - before he'd sent Davey into the night to get kidnapped. It was his fault. Everything was his fault. He'd bitten his fingernails to the quick in fiery bursts of self-hatred and they stung mercilessly.

He almost jumped out of his skin when a hand clapped down on his shoulder, and whipped around with his fist cocked - only to see Spot Conlon, pale and exhausted, his cap pulled low over his face. Jack let his fist fall and nodded slightly to him.

"Jackie-boy," Spot said in way of greeting, mouth set in a grim line. "Any word?"

"Just Burner breathing down my neck." Jack shifted over to let Spot sit on the ledge beside him. "You?"

"Nah. The same." Spot sniffed roughly; his nose was red with a summer cold and it made him human enough that Jack felt a sort of companionship. "I ain't giving up my borough, Jack."

"I know."

Spot's voice took on a fierce, vulnerable quality. "I ain't gonna let Race or Mouth die, neither."

Jack's raw fingers twitched, his throat sore with holding back tears. "I know." he repeated. But the two statements made an oxymoron.

Spot sighed. His shoulders were slumped. "Think we could take 'em on if we team up?"

"We's big. We ain't big enough for a fight that outnumbered." Jack said dully. Every time he blinked he saw Davey, eyes wide and hurt and lovely. "You got anyone on the inside?"

"I don't even know who they all is, Jack. Burner's being all shifty. I know it's got t'be at least four boroughs, but I don't know who's in and who's not." He took off his hat and balled it up, knuckles white. "They's untouchable."

Something clipped and clicked in Jack's head and he heard one of his greatest enemies - the snake, Pulitzer - hissing in his ear. The power of the press. A small twinge of regret hit - he hadn't spoken to Katherine in too long - but if she could -

"No one's untouchable. Spot, get up." Jack scrambled to his feet, energised and bouncing on the balls of his feet with a desperate sort of positivity. "We got a reporter to see."

-

Something was wrong.

It seemed like a stupid statement, since the whole situation was terrible; maybe it was just that Davey's feet had now gone completely dead from lack of movement, or that the indentation on his collarbone was still stinging and pulsing with shame, but there was something fundamentally off in the air. Race had been tied down again, and told Davey that the boys' faces had been set and hard. Davey got a vindictive enjoyment out of the idea that their plans had been derailed, but he forgot about the potential ramifications.

"This'll show them," he heard Burner say as he entered the room, and before he could ask what was going on Race let out a short, sharp yelp.

"Get off him!" Davey yelled, lurching forwards as much as he could. Race was whimpering, an animal sound; Davey's imagination ran wild. "Stop it!"

There were footsteps, and then Davey got the same; a deep cut from his cheekbone to his chin, jagged towards his nose when he tried to move his head away and a firm hand held him in place; his skin crawled at the touch. Paper scraped over the gash like a grotesque seal and he flinched. It was less the pain and more the shock of feeling his own blood run down his face that made Davey cry out.

"Nice letter like that will get them to speed up." Burner let go of Davey's face and he sucked in air, tasting metal. Burner seemed to be talking to someone else and Davey let himself relax for a moment.

"Shit, ain't like they could go any slower."

As soon as it had gone tension poured back into his body. Davey knew that voice; it was the boy who'd touched him, who'd broke his skin with teeth - he ducked his head down to his chest and held his breath in instinct. Don't look at me.

Thankfully, Davey didn't hear him move any closer, but just in the same room was too close. He heard Race shuffling restlessly and then sneering, "You can't scare 'em like this, Burner. Ain't nothing gonna make them give you half the fuckin' city."

"Not even your body on their front step?" Burner asked sarcastically. Race laughed a little, full of bite.

"Like we's rich enough for a front step."

Davey could feel Burner's frustration crackling in the air and wished Race would learn when to stop; that had always been his problem. Davey's, he supposed, was never actually starting, so he jumped in to rectify that.

"Some people can't be bullied." Davey's voice shook a little but he bulldozed on. "You can threaten them all you want, but they're coming for you."

"That's funny." Burner's tone suggested it was anything but. "Because they don't seem like they're coming for you."

When Burner and Davey's attacker finally left after a long, terse silence, Race hissed a little. "Bleeding like a stuck pig, and you too, Mouth." He coughed. "Uh, they wiped it on some letters, I guess for the fellas."

It was humiliating to have to have everything explained to him; when was this stupid blindfold coming off? Burner's words rang in Davey's head and he pictured for a moment if Spot and Jack - if Jack - never came for him, if he never went home to the other newsies and his family. His family must be so afraid, especially Les.

Race was talking, maybe trying to lift his spirits. Davey blocked him out and kept spinning himself into a hole, imagining a future where he had no future at all.


	8. look at me, i'm the king of new york

Race woke up underwater.

The shock of plunging through a surface that felt like concrete snapped his mind into consciousness and he opened his mouth to scream, to cry out for Spot or God, but water forced in down to his lungs. He went to struggle, felt his hands tied to his ankles, and only tired himself out - his eyes stung and his throat roared in pain as the filthy, freezing river rushed through it. It was so dark. It was so dirty. Tears were lost in the gallons of water pushing him down, down, down; he was so afraid. 

Race's struggles barely made a ripple as he sank, only growing weaker as he began to drown. Exactly thirty seconds after they stopped entirely, and the river looked like flat black glass again, someone hit the water a few feet from the shore - swimming fast as they could towards where they'd seen him thrown, the glow of a life to save around their neck like a pearl. 

-

Davey was downright bored at this point. Race had been taken off somewhere again and still hadn't returned after hours, and as much as Davey felt vulnerable he almost wished someone would come just so he wouldn't be alone with his thoughts.

Of course, when someone did storm in with all the anger of a stampede in their stride, Davey figured he should have just been happy with boredom. "Race?" he called hopefully, and was met with a derisive snort. 

"Racetrack's, uh, swimming right now." It was Burner, it was always Burner; the sheath of dried blood on Davey's cheek cracked and itched. "In a sense."

Davey's brain, damaged as it was by a lack of sight, was still smart enough to retain the fact that Burner had threatened then with drowning before. That, and the way he could just hear the smirk in the other boy's voice, made his heartrate slow to a standstill. All the air in his body forced out of him in a sharp breath; "You murderer," he heard himself say, matter-of-fact and detached in horror, and Burner clicked his tongue.

"Spot Conlon's the one who really done it. I'm tired of waiting." His voice was low and he was close enough suddenly for Davey to feel his body heat and squirm, gagging suddenly when he thought of Racetrack in the river. Burner was suddenly grotesque to even be near to. "They're not giving me what I want. So I'm taking it."

"He's sixteen," Davey choked out, still reeling, still seeing this haunting image of a frigid river. Burner tugged at his blindfold, only to tighten it until Davey felt a migraine coming on. 

"He was." Burner sounded dead himself. "This is your boyfriend's last chance, Mouth - Jack gives his territory or you take a dive too. My guys are on their way to Brooklyn, and I hope they won't have to stop off in Manhattan too."

Davey reared back suddenly at the threat and, in a divine fit of bravery, slammed his head forwards - it was a perfect shot for a blind guy, resulting in the crack of cartilage from Burner's nose and howl that rang in Davey's ears. He didn't feel a smile coming on, or any joy on the action - it was just a necessary thing.

"They're just papers." Davey said softly; Burner was still bitching, this long unbroken sound. "You killed a kid for newspapers."

To his surprise there was no retaliating hit. Burner was breathing heavily now. "You better believe you'll pay for that," he threatened instead. "You better hope I don't just kill Jack myself."

Distant, aching pain rippled in Davey's chest. He started to protest, to bargain in a dull voice that lacked any fervour - and then realised that Burner had already left. 

-

Hanging out with Katherine made Jack feel like it was old times, back in the strike when things had at least made a little more sense and they'd all had a common enemy. What they were doing now, on the contrary, was making his head spin, and Katherine didn't seem to quite understand either.

"I don't see how this will help." she kept saying doubtfully. "Doesn't this stand to hurt all of you?"

"Burner would never let it run. He'd rather give up this coalition thing then let us publish something like, well. This."

"And if he says no?"

"If he says no then Jesus, Ace. Spot pulled Race out of the Hudson at five a.m, and he ain't woken up yet; Davey's God knows where. This has to work...it has too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happiness soon I swear


	9. too bad you've no family, but you can't have mine

Davey remembered this one terrible conversation in his life, when Jack had recounted this little kid who'd died on his watch - pneumonia, nothing Jack could do, but it wasn't like he would admit that. Davey had spent almost an hour trying to console him, but Jack had remained adamantly tortured. 

"I gave him all the medicine we had," he'd said. "And he got better a little, n'then he got sick again. I couldn't stop it. I just paused it for a second." 

That frozen moment, the final stop before a surely unending descent, was the unfortunate stage Davey found himself suspended in - jumping at every nondescript noise, feeling Race's loss like a knife in his side. No one had come in a while; he was half-mad with thirst and nerves. They were gonna kill him, or maybe just leave him to die, and Davey didn't especially want either to happen. 

The blindfold sent waves of ink-black aching through his head, the knot digging a grave in the back of his skull. Davey was quite sure now that he would never see anything but darkness again. 

-

"What the fuck is this?"

Burner came storming up to Jack where he'd called him to, the article Jack had sent to him balled up in his shaking fist. He shoved it back to Jack's chest with almost enough force to make him stumble and repeated venomously, "What the fuck?"

Jack didn't budge; he raised his eyebrows. "Can't you read?"

Burner's lip curled in disgust. His eyes were on fire. "Secret underworld? Queer newsies? You trying to make out we's all fuckin' fairies, Kelly?"

"It's believable." Jack's voice was remarkably calm, even to himself, but his foot was tapping with unrestrained anxiety. "Newsies tend to live in the same houses full of other boys. We's already pretty much the lowest of the low. What's one more scandal?"

Burner shoved him, harder this time, and Jack relented a step back from the sheer force of it. "I ain't letting no reporter say I'm queer." he hissed. His face was flaming red and Jack was almost amused by his shamed rage. He barked out a merciless laugh. 

"Stop this bullshit coalition, and this won't be published." 

Burner growled, teeth flashing, a feral and violent child. "This would ruin everyone's sales - yours too, Kelly. You ain't gonna risk your reputation -"

Jack pushed him back suddenly, with far more strength and pride, fed up with petty fights and missing Davey. "I ain't afraid of being queer, Burner." he snapped back; there was no one around and he let his voice rise, compiling all the frustration and fear of the last week into a snarling shout. "I ain't ashamed of how I am. You's a coward, and that's why this would ruin your reputation - because you'd let it. That's why I know you ain't gonna let this run."

"I -"

"Shut up and let me finish. Spot's got your boys running scared from Brooklyn - bet you didn't know that, did you? No one's reporting back, are they? Because they know you's all bark and no bite, and you ain't got nothing to show for it." Jack hated this side of himself, the viciousness he could call on at will, but he goaded it on out of necessity. "This Coalition was a real nice idea, pal, but it's over. I get this article to run and you yourself is over. So what do you want?"

Burner's face was still red and fuming; he looked like he could spit fire. Jack knew he had him in a corner, and Burner said "You ain't running that article!" by way of assent - but cornered animals could still bite, and with one final lash-out Burner added, "But I ain't never telling you where Davey is."

Jack reeled, suddenly wrong-footed when all he'd been expecting was victory. "What?" he asked disbelievingly, immediately, a knee-jerk reaction, and Burner grinned, sour and a sore loser. 

"You get everything - everything." he spat, the jealously of a small careless child wracking his frame. "Call me petty but - you don't get that part of your happy ending, Kelly. I want you to remember that. I want you to remember it was me who killed your boyfr-"

Jack hit the words out of his mouth, breaking his nose in a single deft movement, and then he had to go on; there surely wasn't much time. If the Coalition was collapsing, all loose ends would surely be cut off within hours, and that was all Davey was to them, his value reduced to a thread to be broken. Race would surely know where they'd been, but he was all the way across the river - 

Burner's voice rose over his thoughts like the ugliest wind. "Never gonna find him!" he shouted, voice thick with blood. "He's a dead man, Kelly."

Jack didn't bother to reply; he was already running to the bridge, against a clock with a single, deadly chime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dun


	10. somewhere they won't ever find me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: bit of non-con touching again very briefly

It had become unbearably hot; Davey could feel himself sweating through his clothes and felt disgustingly dirty. He hadn't gotten to bathe, or rinse his mouth out, or even shave in just over a week now and he knew he must be a sight for sore eyes. God, he just wanted water. Why was no one coming?

He'd been alone so long that it was clear something had gone wrong in Burner's plans, maybe for good this time. Davey knew what that would mean for him - he'd once read a book with Les, in an ultimately failed effort to get his wild brother interested in the written word, about this gang of cowboys way out West where Jack was always talking about. They'd been in the desert for days with a captive sheriff, but when they ran out of supplies they killed him.

Burner was going to come back to this dirty, stinking room and kill him.

Davey thought of Race, the bare beginnings of a man, on the bed of the Hudson with the sunken litter; he thought of Jack, the furious last moments, the slam of the door behind him as he'd walked unwittingly into the lions' den with no idea that he'd lose his sight, his mobility, his base dignity. Davey tipped his head back and rasped out a heavy breath. He'd created this hurricane all on his own, and he had to face it all on his own.

Then, "Hey, pretty thing." 

Davey jackknifed, bucking up against the rope and feeling it slide, sweat-slicked but unbreakable, as the footsteps began. He dug his fingernails into the wood of the chair so hard that they broke; he gathered all the air in his lungs and screamed, but the sound cut off into a whine that he despised himself for the second the other boy's hand settled lightly on his throat, teasing pressure.

"Oh, Mouth, you ain't gotta get so worked up." The return attacker traced a line down his exposed chest and Davey's eyes rolled back into his head beneath the blindfold. "Here. This'll shut you up." 

A wad of thick, foul-smelling cloth was shoved into Davey's suddenly wrenched open mouth. It was too unwieldy to spit out. Jaw aching, and drowning in fear at having lost the only remaining defense he possessed, Davey struggled hard again, knocking the boy's hand off him with the sheer force of his writhing and voice exploding from behind the gag with useless force.

"Umm! Umm! Umm!"

"Ssh." A hand ran through his greasy hair, mock-comforting, and then over the bite mark on his neck. Davey sobbed once and the boy clicked his tongue. "You know, I got sent here to kill you. Be grateful I'll make you happy first." 

Kill me. Kill me. Davey's shoulders hunched and rolled as the hand went to his hair again. Anything but that. Don't. Don't. Don't -

"Davey!" 

-

Jack had the boy from Flushing - the boy who'd been poised over Davey like a hellish angel, the blade in his back pocket glinting grey-fire - unconscious in second. He didn't waste a moment soaking him any longer than he had to, as much as he wanted to beat the little rat into the ground; nothing was more important than what was in front of him.

Davey looked like hell; a gash on his cheek had spilled rust-red all down his face and his torn-up shirt, his ribs sharp and heaving against his skin in the waxy light. His hair was in disarray from that mongrel groaning in the corner pawing through it, but the worst was the blindfold - it was tied so tight that Jack could see a white-red line of pressure around its edges, and he knew he had to try and get it off, knew he needed to untie Davey and carry him home, but he was frozen.

Davey was still yelping through his makeshift gag; his body was straining as far away from Jack as possible in his restraints. When Jack finally touched his knee, in a horrified trance, the grunting noises turned into a high keen of terror. 

"Davey, baby," he tried to console, but without his sight it seemed Davey was inconsolable. Jack knew there was no way he could get the blindfold off with his own hands, so he retrieved the knife from the boy in the corner - giving him a kick out of spite - and started to cut it off.

The knot was stiff and untouchable, so Jack started above Davey's ear and sawed at the material. He kept talking, assuring Davey that "it's me, it's Jack, I've got you," until finally it came off soaked with sweat, and he pulled out the gag from between Davey's teeth. 

Instead of shouting for joy like Jack hoped, Davey half-screamed and screwed up his eyes. "It hurts," he ground out, and his voice was hideously frayed, "it's too bright!"

Jack dithered helplessly. "I'm sorry, Davey, I know." he murmured, and then started on cutting Davey's ankles free from the chair. "You're safe, it's alright. Davey, , you're alright."

Davey finally stilled; his eyes opened a crack, like it pained him. "Jack?" he recognised finally, and Jack hid his tears in his shoulder, pulling Davey's hands completely free of the rope. 

"It's me."

"God. Jackie -"

"Try and stand, Davey." Jack gripped Davey's elbows as gently as he could and started to pull him up. It became apparent immediate that Davey couldn't support his own weight; his legs crumpled immediately and his muscles shook and jumped under Jack's hands, and Jack had to catch him. 

"Been tied down - muscle atrophy." Davey muttered. He had his face pushed into Jack's neck by that point to protect his weak eyes; the simple act of skin on skin made Jack's heart race with relief. Then Davey groaned, "Jack - I'm sorry. What I said -"

Jack almost wanted to laugh, or maybe to cry. "Forget that." He knew his legs were shaking with pure shock. "Can you let me carry you?"

"Where?"

Jack gathered the lanky boy into his arms; Davey was a solid weight, reassuring but shivering like he'd never stop, and he stank of fear and filthy water. His hair was stiff and slick with sweat where he kept his head tucked under Jack's chin and God, the knife now in Jack's belt was supposed to have killed him.

"Home," he said softly in Davey's ear, "I'll take you home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the boys are back together! But the story's not over yet!


	11. we've been down too long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of deals with Davey coming to terms with things with lots of h/c

Davey knew that the light wasn't really stabbing into his eyes; if deprived of sight for a long time, the human eye will take time to readjust after being kept in darkness. He knew that, but it felt like every time he blinked, they burned agonizingly.

When Jack finally brought him back to the lodging house, he blocked out the windows with an old sheet, but Davey kept his face buried in Jack's worn shirt all the same. It was as comforting as it was helpful for his destroyed vision; Jack smelled like soap and sweat and warmth and Davey could almost pretend that none of this had happened, that he had just had a bad dream and woken up safe and sound in the bunks. 

He half-dozed as Jack cleaned the dried blood of his cheek, exhausted from the after-effects of shock and lying down for this first time in a week. Davey came back to consciousness with Jack's strong arms around him, his face in Jack's shoulder with his still-sore eyes protected by the flannel of his collar.

Jack had left him in his filthy clothes, clearly feeling that Davey just needed to sleep. "Need a bath," Davey said drowsily, but didn't get up; his muscles ached from moving the slightest amount. 

Jack groaned, the sound reverberating through Davey's skull. "Later." he mumbled. His hand came up to stroke down Davey's neck - his collarbones - over the -

Davey struggled out of Jack's suddenly constrictive embrace, awake in a bang, blinking furiously in the low light when his eyes lit up with fire in protest; phantom fingers pulled at his shoulders, pinched his neck, dragged at his hair and he felt teeth, teeth against his collarbone, breaking skin. Dirty. He was dirty. 

"I said I need a bath!" he half-shouted, his breathing suddenly whistling in his throat. Jack reached for him, confusion in his dark eyes, and Davey jerked wildly out of the bed - his legs buckled when he stood and he had to grab at the bunk's ladder. Don't touch me, don't ever touch me, don't.

"Baby," Jack said cautiously, not moving now, "What's happening?"

Davey's hand went to his throat instinctively and Jack's eyes followed. Watching his face fall was the hardest thing Davey had ever done.

"Is that a..." Jack swallowed hard. "Is that a hickey?"

Shame broiled in Davey's stomach. He felt Jack's gaze on his ripped shirt, on the bite mark, on his surely tortured expression. "Jackie, I didn't want him to." he said helplessly, unable to bear the idea of Jack thinking he cheated, and Jack's face fell even further. Then it became deadly cold.

"I'll kill him." Jack stood and went for his jacket, his shoulders a hard tense line. His voice was icy with resolve. "You sit tight, Davey, I'll send it Albert or - someone. I won't be long." When he turned back to Davey, still clinging to the bunk to stay upright, he was sneering. "It won't take long to snap his neck."

"Shit, J-Jackie, don't do that!" Davey stumbled over to the other boy and grabbed at him, as both a crutch and to stop him. "I know you're pissed, I know -"

"Pissed?" Jack asked, half-laughing sourly. His expression softened, then, and he pressed his hand to the small of Davey's back to keep him upright - and maybe to keep him safe. "I'm more n'pissed, Davey - I'm terrified, alright? And I'm sorry I wasn't there." A tear cut the grime on his cheek. "I'll never let that happen again."

Racetrack had said that; then Racetrack had drowned. Davey couldn't stop shaking. "I have to tell you Race is dead." he blurted out, coarse and untactful - but Jack shook his head.

"No, baby, he's not." Jack looked even worse now. "You thought that this whole time?"

"Burner said - and the river -"

Jack's lip curled in disgust. "Oh, he tried alright." he muttered, and then said a little more brightly, "but you know Race's like a lucky penny - keeps showing up."

Davey sagged in relief, both at the news and that Jack seemed to have abandoned his murderous vendetta. The gash on his cheek started to itch and warm; the scab had split somewhere in his frantic struggles and pleadings, and when he touched it his fingers came away scarlet. Jack brushed his thumb just under it with the utmost care and concentration.

"Please can I wash now?" Davey asked, unsure of whether Jack would really want anything to do with it; he knew he must smell and look awful, and he was dirty in other ways too, so untouchable and unloveable and -

"Course you can, Davey." Jack hooked his arm around Davey's chest for support and, in the kindest act of mercy, shielded his eyes. As they started slowly towards the dingy bathroom of the lodging house, he said only half-jokingly, "I can feel your mind going a mile a minute."

Davey just smiled, a little forced, and didn't answer. It felt like years before he was settled in the cracked bathtub, and then he knew he would have to start undressing but the idea of taking his shirt off was suddenly the worst thing in the world. He froze helplessly as Jack fetched the bucket to fill, plucking anxiously at the buttons that still remained on it, and then in one fell swoop of impulsiveness ripped it off entirely.

Already tattered, the fabric came apart with a snarl of thread on thread, and Davey threw it away from him. He'd burn it. He'd wash himself. And he would be so, so clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed this chapter, thanks for reading!


	12. that's the bottom line

When Davey was finally clean, his skin a sickly bone white under the sweat and grime he'd accumulated, Jack helped him shave. Jack tried to keep his hands as steady as he could while he pulled the razor down Davey's cheek, but it was hard; Davey finally looked at peace, his dark hair fluffy and and his eyes closed, so trusting, but all Jack could see was the bite mark. All he could hear was Davey gagging in fear.

He tried to focus on the task at hand wherein Davey was sitting placidly before him, shirtless, his narrow chest gleaming in the candlelight. Jack felt affection push against his ribs like a growing heart; he finished, put the razor to one side, and bent to kiss his favourite, only person. 

Davey's eyelashes fluttered against Jack's cheekbone, feather-light. To Jack's delight he didn't pull away, just sighed in a quiet hum of contentment. "Hi," he murmured, and Jack smiled.

"Hi." he replied, and finally reluctantly stood and helped Davey to his feet. "Want to go back to bed?"

Davey's eyes were still hazy, still adjusting, and he swayed slightly, but shook his head. "I want to see Racetrack." 

Jack hesitated. Race was still across the river, not strong enough to make the journey back yet, and Brooklyn was a post-war zone; Burner's Coalition may have fallen apart but there was still a festering discontentment in the city, especially after the Brooklyn boys beat them half to hell. And Jack had gone to see Race once; he was developing some kind of pneumonia from the filthy river, and looked like shit. 

"I don't know, baby," he started slowly, "I don't think it's safe. Not for you."

Davey's eyes flashed, a spark of divine power. "What's that supposed to mean? I'm not helpless."

The imprints on Davey's neck were turning purple, speckled with burst blood vessels where that Flushing boy had tried to hurt and scare and claim. Jack felt a shudder go through him. "I didn't say that!" he protested. "I just meant you're still recovering."

Davey was still scowling a little, but he relented with a begrudging, "Fine. Can you at least let some of the other boys up here?"

Jack had practically barricaded them into the top floor of the building, with every other newsie under an absolute ban. Jack knew Davey must miss them, so he nodded, tucking a curl behind the other boy's hair. "Course." Davey leaned into his head like an affectionate cat, rolling his eyes. Jack clicked his tongue. "Ain't you pretty all cleaned up." he murmured.

Davey's head snapped up. His eyes were shut tight suddenly, screwed up like he was in pain.

"Davey?"

"I'm not pretty." If Davey had been pale before, now he'd gone grey. His voice was so low Jack had to strain to hear it. "I'm not. I'm not. I'm not." 

"Slow down, Mouth," Jack tried the nickname in an attempt to ground Davey, but it seemed like the last straw; Davey flinched back, tripped over his own feet and, when Jack tried to reach for him, jerked and fell. He fell half-into the bath, hitting off the porcelain with a sickening crack.

"Hey!" Jack shouted in a panic. He went to reach for Davey but the other boy held up his hand.

"Give me a second." Davey's mouth was set in a hard line; his eyes had returned to the present and lost their haunted look, but they were wide open like he was trying to convince himself yes, I can see. He coughed lowly. "Don't say that word. Please."

Classic Davey still had his manners. Jack rubbed the back of his neck while guilt flooded through him. "Aw, hell," he sighed, "m'sorry, Davey, I didn't -"

"Forget it." Davey said, forced nonchalance. He pulled himself out of then bathtub again and shook off the drops of water gathered on his back. "It'll just take a while, s'all."

How long would a while be? Jack found himself wondering, but he didn't have the heart to ask. Instead he took Davey's elbow and brought him back to the bunk. 

When Davey was settled, still so exhausted, Jack kissed his forehead and stood. "I'll give you some time." he assured, but Davey took a fistful of Jack's vest and tugged at him.

"Stay." he whispered. There was a soft, sleepy lilt to his voice and expression, and in familiar sheets Jack felt a swell of nostalgic affection. "Stay with me, Jackie."

And why would Jack say no to that?


	13. ain't it neat, living sweet

Racetrack's hacking cough echoed through the Brooklyn lodging house like a rough echo; every time he seemed to clear his throat, it would be back within the minute, and Spot was exhausted from staying up all night with him. Still, Spot wouldn't leave his side; not after dragging his limp body out of the river like a drowned kitten. Not after he thought Race was dead when he pulled him on the bank, and sobbed unabashedly into the other boy's soaked shirt in the dark. 

Spot had been sending messengers back and forth to Manhattan, but it was difficult to get any other city kids involved in newsie business after such a massive bust-up in plain sight when Burner's guys had tried - foolishly and unsuccessfully - to storm Brooklyn. Now every borough was murmuring with discontent, but no one quite sure who'd been involved in the failed Coalition (which every sane newsie had denied it when it became apparent how unpopular it was with the rest of the community) and it seemed that it would die with Burner's failure. Spot's knuckles were still sore and torn against other kids' faces; he wasn't proud of it, but Race, wet to the bone and stinking of dark filthy water - 

He ran his scraped-up fingers through Race's hair and tried not to think about it. "Breathe, you idiot." he muttered when Race started to wheeze again, pretending the sound didn't make him wince. 

Racetrack glared, a tattered cloth pressed to his mouth. The gash on his cheek was scabbing grotesquely like he'd been stitched together in some Frankenstein creation. "Fuck you, Conlon," he hissed, but there was a glint in his eyes. "I'm healthy enough to kick your ass." 

Spot snorted and smoothed the sheets around the other boy in an unconscious, protective movement. "Yeah, and when you's healthy enough t'cross the bridge you can get outta my hair." 

It was an empty threat; Race spent half his time in Brooklyn anyway. But his eyes dimmed slightly, and he looked down, mumbling something. 

Spot craned his neck. "What?" 

"M'scared of the water." Race croaked. His face was flaming red with shame and he wouldn't meet Spot's gaze. "I don't...I don't know about crossing the bridge, Spottie." 

The nickname was reserved only for quiet times that required the utmost comfort; Spot let a sigh heave out of him, love a deep and endless hollow in his chest that nothing would ever fill but Race. He reached out and took his hand, raised it to his mouth and kissed Race's knuckles to make him smile. 

"I'll help you." he said, daring to soften his voice in a way he never would with anyone else. "I've got you." 

\- 

Jack was learning there was certain things one did not do around Davey Jacobs anymore. 

'Pretty' was a word to avoid, as he already knew. 'Mouth' had become an uneasy nickname that if said in the wrong way at the wrong time could be dangerous. A candle had to be left to burn all night because if Davey woke up and couldn't see, he would panic - Albert had jokingly come up behind him and covered his eyes as a surprise, and accidentally created a kicking, screeching creature that had made Les cry and Jack swear. 

He'd wake up in tears. In fits of rage. In blank, empty states where he'd run his fingers obsessively over the scarring cut on his face. "Not clean," he'd mumble, voice shaking, and Jack would hold him and cry with him. 

Sales picked back up and Race came home. Nothing had changed and nothing was the same. Jack felt he was living with a ghost, or some mirrored reflection of Davey - who he still loved, but felt a million miles away from. It was hard to connect when the boy he adored was on the other side of something tremendously huge. It would take time; but Jack knew that time was a luxury you could never be certain of. 

And yet funnily enough, when he was out selling with Davey one day and then say Burner smoking across the street, the first thing Jack thought wildly was: there hasn't been enough time! 

Davey saw him, because of course Davey saw him, and stopped dead. Burner was laughing with some butcher's boys, the cigarette hanging off his bottom lip, utterly carefree; Jack went to step between him and Davey, fearing a breakdown or worse, but when he looked Davey's face was full of divine hatred and strength. It reminded Jack of the Davey he met in the strike - wit and a quick tongue making a boy into a legend. Ah, he felt inside. This is the moment of a resurrection. 

He didn't stop Davey crossing the street, didn't stop him from punching Burner in his smug, laughing face and speaking to him, low and vicious and private to the trauma he'd suffered. He just watched, proud as a bird; Davey, he noted, had fantastic aim. 

When Davey came back over, he was shaking a little. His face was slightly off, still not completely of the person he'd been; one punch wouldn't fix everything. Jack wasn't an idiot. One act of revenge was unlikely to rewrite history - but hey, he thought pleasantly, it couldn't to have retribution in their pockets for the future. 

"Ouch," Davey said when he was within earshot, shaking his hand out. "Hard head over there." 

Jack rolled his eyes and took his wrist; Dacey's pulse hummed under his ring finger. "Alright, you bruiser." he admonished, and Davey grinned sheepishly. His eyes blinked bright and wide. 

"Jack?" 

"Mm?" 

"Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done, I really enjoyed writing this so thanks for reading! Please check out my other fics if you liked this one!


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